The Infernal Powers
–Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Translation
Os poderes infernais
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infernal
poetry in translation
body’s contradictions
The Body’s Contradictions
–Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Translation
As contradições do corpo
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return
dawn
Dawn
–Octavio PazCold rapid hands
draw back one by one
the bandages of dark
I open my eyes
still
I am living
at the center
of a wound still fresh
Original
Madrugada
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the bridge
The Bridge
–Octavio PazBetween now and now,
between I am and you are,
the word bridge.Entering it
you enter yourself:
the world connects
and closes like a ring.From one bank to another,
there is always
a body stretched:
a rainbow.I’ll sleep beneath its arches.
Original
El Puente
Entre ahora y ahora
entre yo soy y tú eres
la palabra puente.Entras en ti misma
al entrar en ella:
como un anillo
el mundo se cierra.De una orilla a otra
siempre se tiende un cuerpo,
un arcoiris.Yo cantaré por sus repechos,
yo dormiré bajo sus arcos.
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porcelain
end of world
The End of the World
–João Cabral de Melo Neto
Original
O fim do mundo
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return – regreso
Return (rough translation — read the original!)
–Consuelo Tomás FitzgeraldThis copious rain
tends to erase my face
but the tenderness
I am born from these eloquent streets
and it returns my appearance.
Translation
Regreso
Esta lluvia copiosa
tiende a borrarme el rostro
pero la ternura
me nace de estas calles elocuentes
y me devuelve la apariencia.
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daily space
juice
It Will Not Be
–Circe Maia
Building the days one by one
it may well be that we lose an hour
— maybe just one hour —
or more or many more, but rarely are there extra.They’re always missing, lost to us.
We would like to steal them from the night
but we are tired
already our eyelids are heavy.So we go to sleep and the final image
— before diving into dreams —
is of a new day, with long hours
like plains stretching out, like the wind.Pitiful lie.
There will be no days like the unexpected bubbles
surprising, open.The juice of this past day
seeps through the edge of dawn
and is already gnawing on it.
Translation
No habrá
Construyendo los días uno a uno
bien puede ocurrir que nos falte una hora
– tal vez sólo una hora –
o más o muchas más, pero raro es que sobren.Siempre faltan, nos faltan.
Quisiéramos robarlas a la noche
pero estamos cansados
nos pesan ya los párpados.Nos dormimos así y la final imagen
– antes de zambullirnos en el sueño –
es para un día nuevo, de anchas horas
como llano estirado, como viento.Lastimosa mentira.
No habrá días-burbujas imprevistos
sorprendentes, abiertos.El zumo de este día transcurrido
se filtra por el borde de la madrugada
y ya la está royendo.
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